GreenEyed Monster
by Alexis Katherine
Summary: Van Helsing and Carl travel to the United States to investigate a string of violent, mysterious deaths. As usual, things are much worse than they first believed. Can they stop evil from being unleashed in northern California?
1. Prologue

Title: Green-Eyed Monster

Author: Alexis (Alli Kat)

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Van Helsing characters from the movie/book are not mine; characters you don't recognize are from my imagination unless otherwise specified. I write to distract myself from graduate study, not for profit. So don't sue me! I own nothing but textbooks, anyways.

Summary: Van Helsing and Carl travel to the United States to investigate a string of violent, mysterious deaths. As usual, things are much worse than they first believed. Can they stop evil from being unleashed in northern California? Sorry, no slash!

A.N.: This is my first fan fiction based on a movie. I usually write mysteries, so I apologize in advance if this story takes on a "who-dunnit" feel.

Because the movie did not use subtitles, I'm not going to either. Hopefully the story is written in such a way that readers can get the meaning of any foreign phrases.

Reviews are very, very welcome! No flames, please.

For Grandma J.

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- PROLOGUE -

**San Francisco, California, 1888**

Two hours ago, when he first heard the scratching sound, Father Carlos Maretti dismissed it, attributing the disruptions to rats and mice playing in the attic.

An hour ago, he had believed it was just the solitude and the late hour that were playing tricks on the mind of an old man.

Just now, as the sound had progressed from a faint scratching to the sound of distinct footsteps, he was convinced there was someone or something out in the corridor.

Perhaps it was only a curious seminary student or novitiate.

Father Maretti could remember what it was like to be a novice with an inquisitive mind. He had traveled to Rome from his home in Venice many years ago as a newly ordained priest, young and full of enthusiasm for his work. His gift was languages and, for fifty years, he had spent his time translating ancient tomes in a lonely section of the Vatican archives. And for those fifty years, the solitude did not bother him.

Until recently.

He was nearly finished with the translation of one text in particular and, the more he neared the end of the text, the more he wished he had never begun in the first place.

This, Maretti realized, was when every bump in the night began to bother him. In fact, he seriously began to question whether or not he was going insane.

His fellow priests and brothers in Rome had thought it best if he spent some time in an environment less rife with diversions and pressure. He had been sent to the isolated monastery in the hills above San Francisco to recover.

Maretti's mistake was bringing the cursed text with him.

There it was again.

Father Maretti carefully placed his quill pen into the inkwell and pushed back his chair. He stepped into the hall and called, "Who's there?" in his native Italian, then repeated the question in English.

The echo of his own voice and nothing more.

There could be no one there. It wasn't possible. Noises were amplified in the stone hallways that ran, maze-like, beneath the old church. If someone had been there, the sound of the person's retreat would have echoed down the passage.

And yet....

There came another sound, not footfalls this time but the rustling of papers, from behind him. Father Maretti rushed back into his small room.

"My God," he whispered, in English this time. "What are you doing here?" he asked, alarm coloring his voice.

The man standing next to the cluttered table offered him a smile. "It's good to see you, too, Father. I see you've finished translating the text?"

"You must leave immediately."

"I intend to," the man said, "but first...." He reached into his pocket and took out a dagger with a slender, silver blade. "Requiescat in pace, Padre," he said.

**Santa Helena, California, 1889**

_"You're a wonderful doctor, Sophia."_

She could hear her husband's words clearly, as though he were standing beside her in the room and not lying in the cemetery just outside of town, where he had been for two months. They did not bring comfort to her now, as they had in the past.

As Sophia Sebastian gazed down at the dark-haired man on the bed, she did not feel like a wonderful doctor. "I wish you were here, Sam," she whispered.  
  
Two days ago, she had discovered the young man, no more than Sam's age - twenty-five years old, unconscious and bleeding at her door. She had stitched him back together as best she could but now, as the fever raged through him, she knew he would not last another night.

Sometimes he ranted and rambled in what she assumed was Italian; other times, he only repeated a single word "Fuoco;" still other times, like now, he lay still and silent.

She did not know the young man's name or where he was from. She had found him dressed in robes that indicated he most likely was a servant of God. The tattered leather satchel at his side contained a few dusty books, a rosary, and a journal written in a language she did recognize.

While his identity was unknown, his wounds were not new to her. She had seen similar injuries to six men. Four men, including her husband Sam, had been...gutted like freshly killed deer...during the past two months. These six men had been killed outright and, in some ways, were fortunate. The remaining two victims, like the young man, had received deep cuts but they should have lived with proper medical attention.

Instead, she watched each of them succumb to fevered states that were unlike anything she had ever seen. It was an infection, it had to be, though the wounds did not turn brilliant red and weep yellowish fluid like most infections that she had studied.

"Medico?"

Sophia was pulled back to reality when the man on the bed spoke.

His voice was barely a whisper but surprisingly clear.

"Medico?" he repeated. "Medica?"

Medica. Medical? Doctor. Sophia nodded and gently squeezed his hand. "Yes," she said, "I'm Doctor Sebastian."

"Per favore," he said, speaking quickly, "li ho bisogno di fare qualcosa. Ho bisogno del mio giornale."

"I...I don't understand," Sophia said, shaking her head, helpless. She recognized the language as Italian, but she only knew it from the operas she had attended as a young girl growing up in Philadelphia. At the opera, there had always been subtitles.

The young man motioned for his satchel, which was lying open on the chair next to the bed. Sophia lifted the bag to his waiting hands and he pulled out the journal. He ripped out a page and shoved the crumpled sheet of paper into the doctor's hand.

"Please," he began, speaking with difficulty in heavily accented English. "I need...this cabled to Rome...immediately."

Sophia saw the urgency and the desperation in the young man's eyes and she nodded. "I'll do it," she promised.

The young man smiled weakly and closed his eyes. Moments later, Sophia felt his hand go slack.

- END PROLOGUE -


	2. Part I

Full disclaimer with the prologue. In short, not mine, not making money, don't sue.

Please R&R! Let me know how I'm doing!

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- PART I -

**Vatican City, Rome, 1889**

The sun was barely up when Gabriel Van Helsing was summoned from his room. "So much for a vacation," he remarked to the cleric sent to fetch him. He had returned from a particularly arduous and brutal assignment four days ago and Cardinal Jinette himself had promised Van Helsing would have ample time to recover.

It seemed that four days was ample time to the Knights of the Holy Order.

When Van Helsing questioned the cleric, the younger man merely said, "I do not know, sir." He escorted Van Helsing to the door to the Cardinal's inner office, but did not leave immediately.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Van Helsing," Cardinal Jinette acknowledged, motioning for the cleric to close the door before continuing. Without further pleasantries or apologies, he said, "We're sending you to the United States."

"America?"

"Yes, you will leave today." Jinette nodded to the cleric, who dimmed the lights and switched on a slide projector. The image of an elderly, spectacled priest, dressed in black robes, filled the screen.

"Father Carlos Maretti. He devoted his life to the service of God as a translator of sacred texts. Last year, in San Francisco, he was murdered. Two of our operatives were sent to find the man responsible, but they have failed."

Jinette nodded and the slide changed. Father Maretti's image was replaced by that of two men, one a young priest, the other an older monk. "Father Andrew Gioccone and Brother Edward DiMarco. For six months we heard nothing and then, three days ago, we received word that Father Gioccone was dead. We do not know what fate befell Brother Edward, but we assume the worst."

Van Helsing nodded, resisting the urge to comment. When _didn't_ the Order assume the worst? Of course, that wasn't being fair. They were at war, after all.

"The telegram was sent by a physician in Santa Helena, California. You will go and continue with the investigation. We believe the man responsible for Father Maretti's death is also responsible for the deaths of Father Gioccone and Brother DiMarco. You will find this man and bring him back. Alive."

Van Helsing was more than a little confused.

"Your Eminence, the Order usually sends me after werewolves, gargoyles, and vampires - "

Jinette cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Gabriel, there are more manners of evil than werewolves and vampires. This man has taken the lives of three men, including two of our agents sent to apprehend him. I cannot stress enough how important it is that you bring him to us unharmed. You will not fail us."

Van Helsing arched an eyebrow. From the Cardinal's more-brusque-than-usual manner, he had the sneaking suspicion that some important detail was being left out.

"Come, Van Helsing," Cardinal Jinette said, his tone more gentle. "As you yourself are fond of saying, you're 'the most wanted man in all of Europe.' You don't want that to include North America, too, do you?"

----------

"Ah, Van Helsing, there you are," Carl greeted him cheerfully. "Stir this."

Before Van Helsing could respond, the friar had grabbed his hand and brought it to a glass rod in a beaker filled with a benign-looking clear liquid simmering over the open flame of a Bunsen burner.

"I heard you're off to America," Carl continued, stuffing assorted weaponry into a leather bag. "From what I've read, it sounds positively fascinating. Do send me a postcard. And keep stirring, please."

Though it appeared to be plain water, one could never really tell when it came to Carl and his chemicals. "What is this that I'm stirring, anyway?" Van Helsing asked.

"Just something I've been working on. Improvements on a compound created by a German chemist -- keep stirring! Really, you must constantly for stir it or else it won't turn out properly."

"Did you fix the firing mechanism on the crossbow yet?" Van Helsing asked. On his previous assignment, the weapon had jammed and refused to fire, putting him in a very tight spot.

"There was nothing wrong with the firing mechanism," Carl replied, suspending in his efforts to pack to pointedly give Van Helsing an indignant look. "All it needed was a good cleaning." He sighed dramatically. "I wish you would take better care of -- keep stirring, please -- these weapons. If you don't appreciate them, I'm sure I can find another operative who will respect my talent -- "

"Brother Carl! Come here!"

The friar jumped, dropping the bag he had been filling. The contents went rolling out onto the stone floor.

Lost in his own world, Card had not seen Cardinal Jinette approach with Van Helsing. He stood in front of the table, looking displeased at what he had just heard in the previous conversation.

Carl shuffled over to Jinette like a puppy about to be scolded.

"You will accompany Van Helsing to the United States," the Cardinal said sternly, then lowered his voice so that only the friar could hear. Then, lowing his voice, he spoke quickly and in French. "His mission is to apprehend the man who murdered Father Maretti and return him to us. Your mission is to keep Van Helsing alive. There is evil at work in California, Brother, and we do not know the full extent of it. You will need to stay vigilant."

Jinette touched Carl on the shoulder, two brothers in the service of the Lord. "Perhaps in America, you will gain a better understanding of the virtue humility," he said gently and with the faintest of smiles.

After Jinette had departed, Carl spun around. "You had something to do with this, didn't you?"

"I said nothing about you," Van Helsing said, trying to sway his friend's suspicions, but he couldn't contain his laughter. "His mind was made up before I was summoned this morning. How did you hear I was going to America? Cardinal Jinette only told me an hour ago."

"So I didn't hear it directly," Carl admitted after a moment. "I only assumed the Order would send you when their other agents failed to recover the _Orbis Incendia_." Muttering to himself, he added, "Of course, I didn't think they'd send me again..."

"The what?"

Carl swallowed. "I, er...It's really just gossip," he said, back-peddling quickly. Then he thought better of lying to Van Helsing and said, "I wonder why they didn't....well, I was sure they would have told you."

"Told me what?" Van Helsing was now certain the Cardinal had left out a few key details during the morning briefing. It would be easier to get the information from Carl than from Jinette. "Told me what?" he repeated.

"About what Father Maretti was working when he was - " Carl abruptly cut off. "Oh, Dammit! Van Helsing, you stopped stirring!"

- END I -


	3. Part II

Full disclaimer with the prologue. In short, not mine, not making money, don't sue.

Please R&R! Let me know how I'm doing!

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**Somewhere on the Atlantic**

_Bestia ero ut nox noctis._

_Is ero accersitus continuo per unus verus frater,_

_unus quisnam imperium Incendia Orbis quod eternus Lux Lucis Orbis._

_Quod ex incendia is ero prognatus iterum._

The steamship _Mary Margaret_ steadily chugged its way across the Atlantic. It was past ten o'clock and the only activity on deck came from the officer on watch. Most of the passengers were asleep in their berths, all the cabins dark except one on the port side.

"...they called themselves the _Fratellanza di Fuoco_, roughly meaning the Brotherhood of Fire. They were a secretive lot; kept mostly to themselves. Not much was written about them before the 17th century. There are vague references to the  
group trying unsuccessfully to invoke Invedias, a minor but potentially powerful demon, in 1655 and again in 1670."

Carl carefully turned the page in the book and continued.

"They nearly succeeded in 1710 but..." he paused only long enough to translate the passage, "...but they were defeated by a German monk by the name of Kellerman. Unable to send Invedias back to Hell, Kellerman instead banished the demon, holding it captive in the _Orbis Incendia_.

"By 1730, the _Fratellanza_ had all but completely died out. There are no other references to them, as far I can tell from the texts. Brother Kellerman kept the _Orbis Incendia_ until he died. In fact, for more than seventy years after his death, his fellow brothers at the abbey kept it hidden, as well as the accounts of what he had done. Which is not a surprise, considering - "

"Carl, at the rate you're going, we'll be in California before you get to the point," Van Helsing interrupted. "I need to know what I'm up against, not a history lesson."

"History is important, Van Helsing," Carl replied tersely. "And in this instance, all we have to go on is history."

Van Helsing shrugged and motioned for the friar to continue.

"Where was I?" Carl ran his finger down the page, searching for the passage he had been reading before he was interrupted. "Ah, yes, here it is. The monastery was devastated by influenza in 1826 and abandoned. The collections were transferred to  
Rome and forgotten, until twenty years later, when someone broke into the archives. The subsequent inventory revealed that the _Orbis Incendia_ was the only thing missing.

"Of course, at the time, no one knew what it really was, not until 1865, when the text of incantations written by the _Fratellanza_ in a language they created was discovered in a rare bookshop in Cambridge. Father Maretti was working on deciphering it when he was murdered."

Carl stopped reading and looked up from the text. He waited until he was sure he had Van Helsing's undivided attention.

"Here is where it really gets interesting," he said. "And relevant."

Though he had been pacing the cabin for the past two hours, Van Helsing now sat down at the table, across from Carl. This was what he'd been waiting to hear.

To his surprise, Carl closed the books and stood up. Now it was the friar who was pacing the tiny cabin in the belly of the steamship.

"Immediately following Father Maretti's death, the Knights of the Holy Order sent two of their field operatives to investigate. What they found confirmed what they feared. All of his notes were stolen, as well as the texts he was translating. Furthermore, they found a letter indicating that Father Maretti believed the _Orbis Incendia_ was in California, in the town of Santa Helena. The letter was dated June 15th, 1888."

"The day he died," Van Helsing said.

"Not another word was heard from the agents..."

"...until a doctor in Santa Helena sent word Father Gioccone was dead."

"Yes," Carl said in a tone that conveyed intense irritation at Van Helsing completing his sentences.

"So, the Order believes that whoever murdered Father Maretti and took the book also has the Orbis Incendia and will attempt to raise this demon..."

"Invedias," Carl prompted.

"Invedias," Van Helsing repeated. "Why wasn't I told about all of this, Carl?" His tone was more curious than accusatory.

"I don't know," Carl answered honestly. "Maybe they were embarrassed. Father Maretti was supposed to be in protective hiding when he was killed. And twice artifacts under the guard of the Order were stolen. Two field men were killed. It's doesn't reflect well on their record. And..." Carl hesitated.

"And?"

"And, well, you were told to bring back who ever is responsible alive, weren't you?"

"Yes..."

"Perhaps they thought if they mentioned invoking demons and such, you'd rush in, things would get out of control, and you'd be bringing back another corpse. I think they really want this one alive so he can be properly dealt with."

"And you waited until we were in the middle of the Atlantic to tell me because...?"

"Because, if the Order didn't tell you, they had a reason for not doing so, whatever it was. They're scared, Van Helsing, I know that much. Whatever is in California has them very, very worried. There was always a theory, among historians at least, that members of the Brotherhood fled Europe for America in the early 18th century."

Carl waited just a moment before deftly switching to a lighter mood. "Anyway," he said, "we don't know for sure what we're dealing with. This may have nothing at all to do with the Fr_atellanza di Fuoco_. It's really just conjecture."

"But if it is true," Van Helsing countered, "and Invedias is summoned, how do we kill it?"

"We'd need Brother Kellerman's notes, which - "

"Which were stolen."

Carl thought for a moment, and then said, "But if we find out who is trying to summon the demon, most likely, all the necessary texts will be there, too."

Van Helsing stared out the tiny, round porthole. The ocean was as dark as the night, the swells rocking the steamship as it proceeded towards its destination.

"I guess we'll find out when we get there, won't we?"

- END II -


	4. Part III

Full disclaimer with the prologue. In short, not mine, not making money, don't sue.

Apologies for taking so long to update.

R&R please, let me know how I'm doing! If you would like to pass along comments via email, you can reach me at

For all of those who kept prodding. Thanks to you, I've gotten my focus back. And for Toto, who can claim Jezebel.

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Over a week ago, the _Mary Margaret_ had steamed into Boston Harbor. The thoroughly modern city of Boston was bustling, crowded. From there, a train carried them away from the rollicking hills of the eastern seaboard and across the windswept plains of the Midwestern United States. Past forests and prairies, cornfields and sprawling green pastures. From snow-capped, purple-peaked mountains that gave to the stark red deserts that blended back into scrub forests.

They switched trains in Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, big cities that had been nothing but names on a map until now. There was no time for playing tourist; there never was, regardless of where the missions took him. For the most part, he and Carl slipped by the Americans in their big, busy cities with nary a glance despite the fact they were dressed quite peculiar.

The United States nearly had more railroad miles than all of Europe. As it was, they covered some 3,000 miles by rail. The train deposited them in San Francisco; having reached the Pacific, they could go no farther west. The remainder of the journey to Santa Helena took four days by horseback, heading north along the rocky coast.

It had been well over a month since he had left Rome. Five weeks, going on six, Van Helsing reckoned, based on the location of the sun. It was easy to lose track of the days when traveling.

As a country, the United States of America was still quite young. It was barely a hundred years old, an infant when compared to most nations in Europe. But the continent had been settled long before the first Europeans set up their colonies. The indigenous peoples were pushed out by the colonists, who won the independence to fight their own wars, expand their boundaries, claim more land.

In a way, it wasn't that much different historically from Europe.

Except, in the span of one hundred years, the American frontier had been conquered.

Like many Europeans, his knowledge of America came from trade publications that made it across the Atlantic, or snippets in the newspapers. They relayed tales of wilderness untamed, vast unexplored lands, deadly banditos, Indian raids, and wide-open spaces.

Reaching down from his horse, he lightly touched the strand of barbed wire. It ran for miles in either direction. "Wide-open spaces, indeed," he murmured to his horse as he dismounted.

The animal was content to munch on the scrubby grass near the fence line. Van Helsing looped the reins around the nearest post and then, using the post for balance, carefully scaled the wire fence. Through some miracle, he managed not to tear his coat on the barbs.

Within a few minutes, he had climbed a slight incline and stood on a ridge just above Santa Helena. He smiled, not smug but satisfied that his navigation had been precise.

His mind was on the mission and it was best not to tip off whomever he was tracking down. The presence of two Europeans in remote California would no doubt attract attention. The individual, or group, responsible for the deaths of the Holy Order's agents had to know someone would be sent after him, or them, and make the connection.

Van Helsing preferred to just stay off the main roads.

From his vantage point, Santa Helena was a far cry from the other American towns he'd glimpsed from the window of the train. It was a laid out with a single street running north to south. There were a half dozen buildings, the tallest being two stories. To the north, he could make out a concrete structure that dammed up the Cleary River, and the remnants of a mill, evidence that some sort of industry had once existed in the town. Squinting, he could make out homesteads scattered various distances around the town, like spokes branching out from a wheel. A few homes had smoke coming from the chimney - a sign of life - but most appeared to be abandoned.

Though Van Helsing could see no church or anything that looked like a mission, he recalled that Santa Helena had been founded by Jesuit missionaries in the 1830's. At some point over the past few weeks, Carl had mentioned that.

Carl.

It was then that Van Helsing realized that the friar had not yet caught up with him.

Van Helsing had ridden ahead, no more than five hundred yards out of the pine forest, to scout the path and confirm they were exactly where he thought they were.

Carl should have caught up several minutes ago.

He looked back towards the forest. The tree line was dark and silent.

Suddenly, the horse was no longer interested in grazing. The animal's black head was turned towards the forest, its ears pricked forward, alert.

There was an echo of hooves and, without warning, a rusty colored horse burst from out of the trees. It came towards him at a full gallop, its long strides eating up the distance between the tree line and the fence. Behind it was a sorrel pack mule, straining to keep up.

Van Helsing recognized it because Carl had picked out the chestnut mare with the ridiculous name last week in San Francisco, along with the black gelding Van Helsing now rode. Back then she had been docile but now her eyes were wild and she ran as if for her life.

The saddle was empty.

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Carl wondered if the awaiting mission would be as taxing as the traveling had been. He had been resisting the urge to ask 'Are we there yet?' for days, mostly because Van Helsing had threatened to leave him in the middle of the forest if he did.

Still, the phrase bounced around inside his head like a phonograph recording, driving him to distraction. He was so distracted, in fact, that he never saw whatever it was that spooked his unexceptionally passive horse.

One minute, the animal, which had been called "Jezebel" by her previous owner, was sleepily plodding along and the next, she was on her hind legs, thrashing at the air. Jezebel took off as though shot from a cannon, gone so fast that Carl didn't even see the trail of dust she left behind.

The irony of the horse's name was not lost on him.

Carl was a competent horseman; he would have been able to stay in the saddle, had he been paying attention. But, at the moment the horse spooked, Carl was thumbing through a dime novel he'd picked up in Denver. When the animal reared, he tumbled haplessly backwards, landing flat on his back, staring up at the black trees and patches of slate gray sky.

Volumes on American history the Vatican library possessed and Carl had perused most of them prior to leaving. He only had limited room and his laboratory supplies took priority over history books on his packing list. How better to learn about local culture than to read the local literature?

But he'd be damned if Van Helsing caught him reading something so...non-scholarly. He stashed the novel inside his robe.

Nothing appeared to be broken, so Carl picked himself up, working to disentangle himself from his duffel bag. He'd thrown the bag containing only bare trail necessities over his shoulder earlier in the day. The bag had broken his fall from the horse and probably saved him from more than a few bruises, but it proved even more fortuitous than that.

The pack mule carrying most of his gear had been tethered to his saddle. When Jezebel took off, the hapless animal had no choice but to follow. At the very least, he enough gear to get by until he met up with Van Helsing again.

It was a sound that got his attention, a sound in an environment previously devoid of sound.

For the past several hours, the forest had been growing quieter, as if it held something so secret that even the birds and the insects were careful not to divulge it. And, considering the mission they were on, that was probably not far from the truth. The closer they came to Santa Helena, the more still the forest became. No birds, no insects, no wind. That was most unusual.

It started so soft and low that it was impossible to tell how long the rumbling noise had been occurring before he noticed it. In an instant the sound went from imitating distant thunder and to like being beneath a bridge as a locomotive roared by overhead.

It was only a thunderstorm. Apparently, storms came on fast in America, much like they did in certain parts of Europe. And yet...the rumbling was beginning to take on a pattern distinctly like an animal's growl.

The shadows lengthened, consuming the forest. No sun made it through the canopy. It was dark, more like midnight than half past two in the afternoon.

His special lantern had been attached to the mule. Digging through the duffel bag, Carl searched for the candles he knew were there. Finding one, he pulled the cylindrical tube containing his "mechanical matches," of which he was particularly fond. It was relatively simple, in his opinion: percussion caps embedded in a thin strip of paper that ignited the wick soaked in petrol. He'd been experimenting with different ways of igniting the wick. Flint-lock was a preferable choice, but more difficult to work with, so far.

At any rate, it was a much better way to start fires. He flicked the case open and it ignited on the first try.

The candle burned brightly, in start contrast to the dark all around him.

It stood not thirty yards away, watching him. He couldn't see it clearly, for it seemed to be part of the shadows rather than hiding in them. Whatever it was, it was large, much bigger than the wolves that roamed the forests of Eastern Europe. Its features where undefined, as if it were being viewed through thick fog. The creature seemed to be more feline and Carl thought it might be a mountain lion.

The creature seemed to stare at him with green eyes that were more oval than round. The creature smirked. God, yes, its lips curled back over gleaming white teeth and it smirked at him.

He felt more than saw it tense, preparing to pounce.

Carl dropped the candle.


	5. Part IV

Full disclaimer with the prologue. In short, not mine, not making money, don't sue.

Apologies for taking so long to update. I have no excuse other than life as an assistant college professor has turned out to be far more time-consuming than I thought it would be.

R&R please, let me know how I'm doing!

* * *

The candle tumbled end-over-end once before dropping to the forest floor. The weather had been unseasonably dry and the pine needles and leaves that littered the ground provided excellent tinder. The ground burst into flames. 

Deciding that being in the dark was better than burning down several acres of ancient redwoods, Carl quickly stamped out the fire before it could spread. He then quickly sized up his predicament.

It wasn't a wolf; even European wolves weren't that large. Werewolves were, but a werewolf would have attacked by now. Among supernatural beasts, werewolves weren't experts in strategy.

The creature was larger and more feline. Or, rather, roughly feline. The creature melded with the shadows in the forest so well that Carl couldn't get a good look at it. It could be a mountain lion, though far larger than any mountain lion on record. At the very least, he was about to be mauled by a mountain lion that could smirk.

If that bit of info made it back to his fellows at the Vatican, he'd never live it down. Provided, of course, that he also made it back.

"Right then," he said, fumbling with the duffel bag, thankful it was still open. Most of the weapons had been attached to the mule, but he knew there had to be something in the bag that would be helpful in fending off the creature.

He didn't have much time to inventory the bag's contents. There was a sound like fire crackling and the creature leaped forward.

Carl grabbed the first thing his hand made contact with in the bag - an odd-shaped hunk of something in a glass beaker. Once, it was intended to be a new resin compound and virtually indestructible. Now it was permanently adhered to the insides of the beaker, unless he could come up with the chemical reaction to reverse the process. Which wasn't likely, since Carl was the one who had designed the process to be irreversible in the first place.

The creature caught the object in mid-air effortlessly, biting down with powerful jaws, shattering the glass beaker. It dropped to the ground. The creature landed, rustling the leaves, but making no sound. In reversed direction in one movement, not turning on its hindquarters but, instead, melting into the ground and reforming facing the opposite direction.

The large black quasi-feline was certainly not of Earthly origin.

It was also not smirking anymore. In fact, it was outraged. Perhaps it wasn't used to its prey fighting back. In one smooth motion, bounded two steps and then leaped.

With no time to run, Carl shut his eyes, waiting for the impact.

A crossbow bolt whizzed out from the shadows. Then another, and another, each in rapid succession. The bolts were well aimed and struck the creature in the chest in mid-leap. Four bolts were buried to the shaft in what should have been the creature's heart. It thudded to the ground...

...and it vanished.

With a brief crackling sound and without rustling the leaves, the beast was gone. All that remained in the spot where it had fallen were the crossbow bolts, lying innocently on the forest floor.

Van Helsing stepped from the forest, crossing quickly to where the stunned friar stood motionless.

"Carl?"

Slowly, Carl opened his eyes, first one and then the other. "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. I..did..did you see-" he stammered but Van Helsing cut him off.

"What was that?"

"_Indistinto natoturas_," he answered. "Shadow creatures. Sentries. But that's...it's..." He had read a dozen books and letters pertaining to the current mission and not one mentioned anything about a vanishing preternatural cat. "It shouldn't be," he finished. "They shouldn't be here. It doesn't make sense."

"Does everything have to make sense?"

"Well, yes, it does. In its own way."

Van Helsing shouldered the crossbow and stared at the patch of ground where the creature had vanished moments earlier. "Let's go find that doctor. We've lost our advantage."

"We had an advantage?"

"Surprise. But now they know we're here."

* * *

"Doc, you here?" 

A male voice called out impatiently from the front parlor.

"Yes," Sophia yelled back, dropping the sheet back over the face of one Simon Roberts, M.D., formerly of Redding. For Dr. Roberts, the trip to Santa Helena was one way. He had been discovered a few miles north of town, in a ditch, split in two. He had been brought to her because the town's mortician had been dead for weeks.

Sophia believed it was a cruel joke by some higher power. After all, Dr. Roberts had been coming to replace her.

The building that now housed the clinic had been an abandoned general store when she and Sam had moved in. Sam had quickly erected partitions in the open central space, creating two exam rooms, a surgical suite, a recovery room with four beds, office space for the both of them, and a waiting area out front.

Amos Cleary, self-appointed town sheriff and mayor, was thumbing through the patient ledger on the counter when Sophia walked into her clinic's waiting area.

"Business is booming," he remarked.

Sophia hung her apron on a peg and reached for the ledger, slamming it shut and placing it under the counter. She wondered where Jenny Tucker, her assistant and the only help she had now, was. The girl wasn't quite right, but she had lost her entire family and Sophia couldn't leave her on her own. Jenny had an aunt in San Francisco who had written that she would wire money for Jenny's stage fare to the city, as soon as she as able to do so.

"So what is it?" Cleary asked, sensing that the doctor's mind was wandering. "Tetanus? Typhus? I can handle an epidemic, if I know it's an epidemic."

"I don't know what it is, Amos. It might be tetanus but if it is, it's unlike any case the medical community has seen before. I'm doing all that I can, but as long as that...thing is out there, this won't stop."

"Excellent observation, Doc." Cleary smiled, emphasizing the word "Doc" in such a way that Sophia wanted to take a scalpel to him.

"What do you want?"

"I want to check on my _bandito_."

Sophia frowned, wondering what angle Cleary was playing. The previous night, two of Cleary's deputies had brought in a young Hispanic male, late teens or early twenties, with the same bite wounds as all of the others.

"He's asleep," she replied, then added. "It's early, but he seems to be doing well, so far."

"He now has a name." Cleary pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat. "Miguel Jose Pietro Nogales. Age nineteen. Killed six men, wanted in two states."

Nineteen. Sophia wandered about the young man's parents, his family, about the families of the men he had killed, and what had driven him to murder. His age didn't surprise her, though, she realized coldly. She thought it likely that nothing would surprise her again.

"...here for the competition." Cleary was still speaking. "I have ten contestants, each paying a five hundred dollar entry fee. If he'd known what was waiting for him, he may have stayed to face the gallows in Arizona." Cleary paused and smiled. "Now I'm short a contestant. How about you, Doc? I'll give you the bounty on the Mexican and you can use it as your pay-in."

Sophia just stared at him. She wanted to order Cleary out of her clinic, appalled that he would suggest she take part in what could only be a suicide mission.

And yet.

And yet...some part of her, a part that was growing stronger, wanted to avenge Samuel's death, to hunt down the creature responsible and kill it. It was a foolish, insane idea. It wouldn't give her any satisfaction. It wouldn't bring him back.

Sophia felt hot tears welling up in her eyes. "Get out," she whispered.

"Think about it," Cleary said as he headed for the door.


End file.
